


Beyond Repair

by tenderly_wicked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Dark, Drama, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Non Consensual, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-03
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-01 01:50:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12826.html?thread=67183898#t67183898">this prompt</a>. As a youth, John used to be a troublemaker. Since then, bad memories still haunt him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond Repair

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my betas selana1505 and misanthropyray.

“Oh, hell. Hell. Hell.”

At the moment, John couldn’t agree more with this statement, still in a hangover blur, his head unbearably heavy, Ian’s voice pulsing painfully in his ears. He opened one eye cautiously and watched his friend pacing across the room. Not John’s, not the one in the college residence hall. Ian’s living-room.

“Oh, dammit!” Ian landed on the sofa beside him, and it creaked under his weight. John winced at the sound. Yeah, perhaps he’d had too much to drink last night. Not for the first time. He slowly pushed himself up until he was sitting with his back more or less straight against the cushions.

“What’s wrong, Ian?”

Something _was_ wrong.

“What if he presses charges against us?” Ian muttered indistinctly, face buried in his hands.

“Who?”

Ian looked at him as if he’d just won a prize for the most idiotic question of the year. “Don’t you remember?”

Er. Well. He did remember, but not much. To be honest, his memories of the previous night resembled a jigsaw with missing bits. Lots of missing bits.

They were already half-drunk by the time they slammed into Ian’s house at Blackheath – Ian, John, Andie, Larry. And James, of course. The usual gang. With Ian’s parents away for the whole weekend, they had plenty of time for a nice private party. Ian suggested watching something porn-y, and that was the start of it all.

“Mmm… I’ve got a better idea, actually,” James said with an exaggeratedly pensive look, unsuccessfully trying to hold back a smug, crooked grin. He always had better ideas. “How about something more interactive – a good old-fashioned gangbang? I happen to know a sweet slutty boy who’s gagging to be buggered. Get him high, and he will pretty much take it up his arse from anyone. And I _can_ get him high.”

Larry giggled. Andie said, “You fucking businessman, Jamie, I knew you weren’t only selling weed.” James shrugged his shoulders, still grinning, and made no attempt at denying it.

“Nah, I’m not into that,” John shook his head, with a strange feeling that his tongue ceased to obey him at times. “I mean I’m, you know, straight.”

James let out a short laugh. “C’mon, Johnny boy, we all are. No one’s a faggot here, no one’s wishing to get his own anus torn up. We’ll just have fun, that’s all. Bugger a pretty slut. Never tried anal with a girl? The thing is, there’s not much difference whether you are fucking a woman or a man from behind. An arse is an arse. Just stick your cock into it and enjoy yourself.”

John had a few more drinks after that, they all did, while James was making the call. Soon the guest arrived, and James guided him upstairs, by Ian’s permission, to “have a talk in private”. This lad didn’t look like a junkie – at least, not like the ones John knew. Clearly a bit public school. Pale and angular, nervous, but still a pretty boy, just like James said. With milky white skin and dark curls. Fresh and bright. How did James get to know him? He mentioned that, but his words had slipped out of John’s mind. It was something weird. Something about a pool accident a few years ago, and discussing crimes whilst sharing a joint.

Some time later, James reappeared in the living-room, smiling triumphantly. “I think our sexy Snow White is ready to be shared around. Time to make a confession, Ian – where do you hide condoms from your watchful parents?”

The next scene remained surprisingly vivid in John’s mind. The hazy-eyed “slut”, passive but unresisting, half-stripped by impatient hands, ended up sprawled face down on Ian’s crumpled bed, making funny sounds as James began fingering his exposed arse. The youth was still clad in a dark unbuttoned shirt, but his trousers and underwear and even socks lay in a sloppy heap on the floor.

And all the guys were watching, horny and hungry-eyed. It was like a porn movie made flesh.

James took his time breaching the fuckboy and held himself deep within the stretched hole after his climax, reluctant to withdraw. Ian almost had to push him away to take his place, swearing as he fought to get his jeans down and to roll a condom on. The youth was fidgeting beneath him and muttering something, but it sounded like total gibberish. Soon this mumble turned into stifled moans, mirroring Ian’s rhythmic grunts. “Oh, he _is_ a slut!” Andie murmured, approvingly, unzipping his jeans too. “Just listen to him! A porn star!”

John was observing all this in a half-dreamy state, turned on by the scene – and yet estranged from it. By the time it was his turn, the lad’s butt had been successfully introduced to three cocks, and John slid into the considerably loosened hole almost with no resistance, a sudden and intense physical sensation incorporated into the dream. He grabbed the boy’s hips, moving within the slick lubed warmth, grinding up hard into it. He didn’t know that a once-tight sphincter could be dilated that much, he wondered mildly if it hurt. But the chap didn’t resist, so it was alright. It must have been alright…

Having come with a shudder, John pulled out, uncertain how he should get rid of the spent condom. After that, his memories of the evening were a bit vague. For some time, he’d been stupidly contemplating Larry’s buttocks, clenched in effort as Larry was working his way to orgasm. Then Andie turned the compliant body over, inspecting the youth’s semi-hard cock with curiosity, “Should someone bring him off too?” But this idea found no response.

John was too drunk to proceed, or even to zip his jeans properly, he just sagged into the nearest armchair, sleepy and contented, but the others clearly wanted a second go. “Fancy one more dance?” Jamie asked his invitee suavely. The sheets were wrinkled and untidy, and the lad’s hand was hanging off the bed, dangling back and forth as the fucking went on, and on, and on.

There was some fuss later. Ian was shouting, rather hysterically, in contrast to James’s calm voice… Someone was rushing about, dragging something heavy past John…

In the night, John trudged downstairs, feeling unsteady on his feet, desperate for a drink of water, and then he was vomiting in the toilet, endlessly, writhing on the cold tiles. After that, he passed out in the living-room, apparently – no idea how he’d managed to get there.

Now it was daylight, and the house was silent. 

“What happened?” John repeated.

“Our ingenious Jamie gave that guy an overdose,” Ian hissed, “to make him amenable. That’s what happened. And we all had a go,” he whined suddenly. “I did, you did. If they took some tests at the hospital, could they find out he was not only drugged but gang-raped? Could they? Even though we used condoms? You’re about to be a doctor, you should know that!”

“But it was consensual,” John frowned, still uncomprehending. “It _was_ consensual, right? He wasn’t fighting us or anything.”

“Huh! The thing is, we don’t even know what James told him and if he agreed to all that. Anyway, after that hit, he would have been barely aware of what was happening to him, most likely. God, I hope he doesn’t remember much. Maybe he was too high to recall for sure if he consented to having sex or not – but if he survives and talks to the police, we should all say he did. It’ll be James’ problem to wiggle out of drug charges, not ours. It was James who doped him, we had nothing to do with it!”

John interrupted him, not catching on. “How’d you mean – _if he survives_?!”

“Are you deaf? Don’t you hear me? Overdosed. He was unconscious, totally out,” Ian choked on his words, “by the time we… finished with him.”

They couldn’t call an ambulance to his house. Of course, they _couldn’t_. Who would want questions about a comatose teenager lying in their bed! So they managed to get the boy dressed, dragged him outside, to the park, left him on a bench (no one noticed them, Ian said reassuringly) and made a call from the nearest phonebox.

John sat there, blank and still not quite getting it.

“I’ll fucking kill Jamie,” Ian continued sniveling. “This junkie doesn’t know _his_ address, he knows mine. They will come for _me_ if the guy talks!”

Then came the fear, primitive and visceral, a cold wave spreading from John’s solar plexus up to his throat. _If the guy talks_.

To John’s shame, that’s what he felt first. It was minutes later that he thought to ask, “Where is he? What hospital?”

Ian didn’t know, and it wasn’t his concern right now. He was preoccupied making up a convincing story for the court should police find them.

James didn’t know either. He didn’t even remember the lad’s name. Or so he said, to prevent John from finding him.

“Just another self-confident rich boy looking for adventures in a big bad world,” James said with a shrug. “I used to call him when I had a dose. We met a few times. That’s all. He was asking for trouble – well, he finally got it. And you,” he added, in a soft voice, “will be in trouble too if you don’t stop prying. You knew I was going to drug him, you joined the game. So it’s in your best interest not to draw attention to all of us, asking suspicious questions. Take it as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off.”

And John did as he was told to. In other words, he did nothing. He thought better than to go looking for an overdosed patient in the nearby hospitals and checking if he was alright ( _what if he wasn’t?_ ). He never talked to James about the matter after that. He just dragged himself through his usual mundane life, waiting for police to contact him any moment. But days passed, and weeks. Nothing happened.

***

John had sleepwalked through the whole year after that, trying to suppress fear, shame and guilt, and hating himself for that. He always thought himself to be a good person. He _was_ good, despite some shortcomings. He was! A diligent boy who learned clarinet at school and worked hard to start college. So awfully dull and ordinary that he’d got tired of it, tired of being normal and nice – aren’t we all now and then? He just needed his life spiced up, he wanted fun and risk and freedom.

How could it all have turned him into a rapist and – maybe – a murderer in one single night?

He tried to concentrate on studying, to keep his mind preoccupied, but that didn’t help much. Drinking helped a bit more. He was hanging out on his own now. He spent time in stuffy bars and clubs, looking for simple and effective alcoholic stupor. But that was a temporary getaway. He woke up in the mornings not only sick but sickened with himself. Because a good man wouldn’t want oblivion after having done something so terrible. He would want atonement, punishment, penance.

Once, in a seedy night club, he saw two men at the bar counter watching him with interest. He gave them a glance too, and one of the couple smiled, a hand resting on the other man’s thigh. After that, they were eying each other for quite a while, from time to time. The blinding disco lights were spinning, the music was too loud, and John was getting more and more mindless with each shot of alcohol. Eventually, with a weirdly-coloured cocktail in his hand, he approached them, heart clenching, and kind of offered himself.

He was drunk, and he wanted to know if it did hurt.

The flat they brought him to was ill-lit, and John scarcely had an opportunity to look around, but it was not exactly the purpose of his visit anyway. His t-shirt was soon peeled off, and one of the guys unclasped his belt, standing behind him, and slowly unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, while the other one was watching, settled down in a spot of faint light from the bedside lamp. A hand reached into John’s undone fly, teasingly brushing through the pubic hair. John felt the steady press of hips against his own, the bulge of an erection, still denim-clad too, placed right between his butt-cheeks. To his confusion, he was already half-hard too. “It’s your first anal, isn’t it?” the man at his back murmured, warm breath caressing John’s neck. “Don’t be so nervous. You gonna love it.”

It didn’t really hurt, it was just very uncomfortable. John couldn’t relax, naked, pushed to all fours and almost panicking. His breathing came in erratic bursts as he tried to adjust to the sensation of the slick fingers inside of him, spiraling in, further and further. When John was finally stretched enough to take a cock past the anal sphincter and up his hole, all the way in, he felt full there, like he needed to go to the restroom, which was not arousing at all. After the first few minutes, the feeling subsided, though, and then a slight change of angle made him gasp and buckle, and that was… that was… oh, fuck!

John left in the morning, with a dull soreness in his backside – as well as with his usual afterparty headache – and still not ready to think soberly of what he had done tonight. The whole experience turned out to be quite bearable, if disturbing. But these guys were delicate, both of them. Patient and considerate, in a way.

 _They_ had not been that delicate with the boy they had abused.

Next time, with other men, John said that he liked things rough.

***

Mike Stamford, the chap John shared his room with, wasn’t there when John returned home. It was a relief, really, because at the moment, John knew it would be hard for him to stand Mike’s worried glances and persistent questions. Being alone, he could afford the luxury of not holding himself together. He stumbled off to his bed, fully clothed, unable to undress, and lay there for a while, curling in on himself and whining quietly. The walls were paper thin, he didn’t want anyone to hear him.

He wasn’t badly hurt, still he couldn’t bring himself to inspect the injuries, minor as they were. Everything seemed somehow to be suspended in his head, all details washed away, and he wanted this mental numbness to last as long as possible.

After an hour or so, he forced himself to get up, go to the bathroom and take a shower. He washed himself thoroughly, biting down on a sob at the sting of water against his back. The abrasions felt like lines of raw throbbing heat. He cleansed the sore flesh between his buttocks too, scrubbing it methodically with his fingers, digging inside. No fresh blood, fortunately. It could be rather embarrassing if he needed stitches there.

He was glad that they had gagged him, otherwise he probably would have lost his resolve and told them to stop at some point. He wanted to go through it, he did. However, it turned out that he was weaker than he thought. Maybe they wouldn’t have stopped anyway, John couldn’t tell for sure. He had no chance to find out.

It was exactly as bad as he knew it would be. To feel helpless, brutally stretched, violated, used. With no idea how long it might last. He hoped that maybe it hadn’t been that painful, at least, if under drugs.

Putting on a loose t-shirt and pyjama pants, John thought absently that these clothes were good for now, of course, but perhaps he should wear something with long sleeves in Mike’s presence, even though a shirt or a jumper would be rubbing uncomfortably against his back. It could be rather inconvenient if Mike saw his wrists. Why provoke inquiries.

It had been ages since John’s last meal. He was hungry, so he made a sandwich and ate it, standing by the window in his room and sipping deliciously hot tea, with two spoons of sugar in it.

Then suddenly he started crying again, pathetically and uncontrollably, with a mug still clutched in his hand, and he couldn’t stop. As if he was four again and his little toy soldier was broken beyond repair – smashed, turned into useless pieces of plastic, not _alive_ anymore. _Killed_. And nothing could be done about it.

It wasn’t self-pity now that made him cry – nothing had happened to him, after all, nothing that wouldn’t heal and nothing that he didn’t deserve. It was just the same uncanny feeling of irreversibility.

John wished he had someone to hold on to, someone to trust with a ruinous secret. But what might he say? _I raped a drugged boy and I can’t get over it_. Oh yes, it sounded very much like he needed consolation, he told himself sarcastically.

When he had finally calmed down, he felt drained and empty and blank as if his mind had been anesthetized a bit by this outburst. He lay on his bed and stared at the pile of books on the desk he shared with Mike. He was alright, more or less. No permanent damage done. He didn’t know if he was glad to be alright, though.

***

Somehow, John’s life went on. Quite an ordinary life, in fact. He studied medicine. He dated nice girls from time to time.

But these normal “serious” relationships turned to utter torment sooner or later. John usually managed to screw everything up, eventually, no matter how much he was interested in the girl he was dating. Maybe because it was a bit hard to share most intimate thoughts with a person he cared for – and to realize, at the same time, that there was always something he’d never tell.

A small part of John’s life, though, required no trust, no careful planning, no thoughts of the future. It was far more simple, if less ordinary, and belonged to seedy places, clubs of a particular sort, neon-signed or anonymous. It consisted of slightly involved episodes, rough hands pressing him to the floor, blindfolds and ropes, whispers and screams, spots of light and darkness. There was pleasure overcoming pain – and pain overcoming pleasure. Otherwise, not much to remember. Just a few moments, perhaps. A cold hand stroking his hair gently, almost fondly while he was still bound, slowly coming to his senses. A low husky voice: “It’s over, boy, it’s all over now. You’ve been so good, I’m so proud of you.” A kiss goodbye from another one-night lover – if they all could be called lovers: “Hey, sad eyes, may I see you again?”

He’d almost run into James once, in one of those clubs. James hadn’t noticed him then, luckily.

Well, John _was_ lucky, come to think of that. Safety and sanity were not his priorities at all, still, nothing happened to him. No diseases caught, no scars left. He even quit drinking after one of Mike’s everyday sermons against the evils of alcohol.

“It’s a shame you’re wasting yourself,” Mike grumbled, genuinely upset, watching John’s morning quest for aspirins. “With your wits, with your compassion, you could be a good doctor, better than me, better than most of our college grads. But you never will if your hands are shaking after another booze-up! If you don’t care about your own life – will you maybe think of those lives you could save?” John didn’t answer, and Mike added, angrily. “Damn, you don’t even enjoy it! It seems you’re just ruining yourself on purpose. You know, there are many other ways to do it, and they don’t include alcohol.”

Hell yes, John thought, looking with vacant eyes at the finally found bottle of aspirins. There are.

He never wanted a promising career. The thought of it couldn’t stop him from searching for temporary oblivion. Not just devoting but sacrificing himself to work – that was something different, though. Better to give up his life rescuing those he could save instead of wasting it for nothing…

It had been a long way to go before John finally joined the military as a doctor. It took time. It took effort. Still, now that he had a goal, it was easier for him to head into the future instead of looking back into the past. He started everything anew. It was good to be constantly busy, to be needed, to be of use, wearing himself out every day, thinking of nothing else but the task at hand. For a few years, John’s army life had been chaotic, challenging but full of meaning, with no room left for bad memories. Eventually, he caught himself feeling almost happy now.

Exactly at this point, his luck had run out.

And here he was – in London again, with a dull ache in his torn shoulder and a psychosomatic limp. Penniless and unattached, which was another word for lonely. They said he needed a therapist. If he’d ever needed one, that had been many years ago. Now it was a bit too late.

He met up with Ian and Andie and Larry. The guys hadn’t changed much, though both Larry and Andie had families by now. Ian was about to get a promotion in his company, immensely proud of himself. They talked of unimportant things in a pub, downing pints like they were in their twenties. None of them mentioned John’s leg. None of them spoke of anything disturbing, they were just having fun. And really, what was the use of talking about uneasy things, what did it matter? Why think, for example, of the boy, abused and maybe dead. They didn’t even know his name.

***

…He does know it now, though. He has learned it short after that. The name is Sherlock Holmes.

John hadn’t recognized him at once. No wonder why. Who would imagine this elegant, self-confident man as a nervous youngster desperate for a hit… It was only during the drugs bust that something clicked in John’s mind. 

“Seriously. This guy, a junkie?” he almost laughed, amused at the thought that these cops supposed they’d find anything they could call recreational. But when Sherlock hissed apprehensively, “John, you might want to shut up now,” he suddenly blinked, realization dawning. Dark curls, white skin, a bit public school… “No.” No, no, it couldn’t be…

“What?!” Sherlock snapped.

 _“You?”_ John breathed out in astonishment, unaware of what he was saying. Sherlock gave him a fierce look – and for a horrible moment, John was sure that Sherlock had recognized him too. But he hadn’t, he obviously hadn’t. He’d probably noticed John’s strange tension, so close to fear, still, with other problems to face, immediately dismissed this oddity as unimportant.

Since then, John’s past has always been at his side. He’s currently sharing a flat with it. Mycroft says living with Sherlock must be hellish. It is. Not because Sherlock can be intolerable sometimes. John is far too patient to mind his insults, since they are mostly unintentional. It seems he’s grown immune to humiliation, verbal or physical. He won’t grumble at Sherlock’s tantrums either. Even his flatmate’s macabre experiments cause only slight outbursts of irritation – he’s seen worse. It’s a vague thought that makes his heart clench. If his own life has changed so much after the assault, what must it have been to Sherlock, how it all affected him? If not for that night, would he still have become so harsh, cold and detached, a man married to his work, a man with a bunch of enemies but no close friends? This endless train of reasoning is what John’s personal hell consists of.

The only thing he can do to make his wretched life bearable is to devote it to the one he has molested. He’ll be agreeable and compliant. He’ll be helpful, spending sleepless nights beside Sherlock – sorting books for him, looking for weird graffiti. Like a friend would do. John can’t force himself to tell someone that he’s Sherlock’s friend, though. If Sherlock only knew… would he still call John that?

There are moments that make John forget they are not friends at all and never will be. It’s when he’s running along with Sherlock through dark alleys, heart pounding, adrenaline rush giving him extra-strength for the chase. It’s when he’s stitching up a gash on Sherlock’s upper arm afterwards, scolding this idiot for recklessness. It’s when he’s watching telly, curled on the sofa in their living-room, while Sherlock is studying something nasty under the microscope, adorably absorbed in his work, and everything’s so peaceful and quiet that it hurts. It’s when they smile at each other, all of a sudden.

But these moments don’t last for long.

John is constantly aware of a potential disaster. His heart sank when they met James recently at the hospital. Fortunately, James pretended they didn’t know each other, and probably hadn’t recognized who Sherlock was. Jamie hadn’t known the lad’s name back then, after all – he’d said so, and he was likely to forget Sherlock’s face…

John hoped they’d never meet again. Still, there was always a chance that the secret would be undisclosed sooner or later, one way or another. Could it possibly be… a relief?

Sometimes John wishes he could cry, face buried in Sherlock’s lap. He dreams of muttered words, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry”. He dreams of a cold palm stroking his hair and of a low whisper, “It’s over, John, it’s all over now.” But he will never remind Sherlock of that night many years ago, hoping he has deleted it from his hard-drive as successfully as the sheer existence of the solar system. It’s not that he’s afraid of what Sherlock might do to him once the truth is revealed. He’s ready. No, it’s the thought of Sherlock, his brilliant could-be-friend Sherlock who will have to exist with these re-loaded memories – that’s what makes John shudder. Now blissfully unaware, Sherlock lives in a boy’s adventure tale, sometimes terrifying, but deprived of filth and shame. John doesn’t want to ruin it, to burn the heart out of him. So he won’t say a word.

And it means – he will never know if he can be forgiven.

**Author's Note:**

> My [Tumblr](http://tenderlywicked.tumblr.com)
> 
> My novel [Tenderly Wicked](https://www.amazon.com/Tenderly-Wicked-Katerina-Ross-ebook/dp/B01LYGUJ02/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1473767605&sr=1-1#nav-subnav)


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